To the poet
to the mystic
to the seer
who conjures words
before us and begins
to appear, kashmir
and bolts of crimson cloth

almond and vanilla
crushed and transformed
into
a potion that could be
a prison
or a palace
that thrills us

two souls one person
light and fire
bound by breath
days and days that never end
and ones that will end

this message we'll send:

gather your corn
light smoke of sandalwood
we are renewed each morning
or was it each night?